


A Clean Slate

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [3]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Advice, Brothers, CIA, Crossover, Forgiveness, Gen, Protectiveness, Second Chances, Starting Over, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.</p><p>Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.</p><p>Eight months after the events in Moscow, Kirill and Bourne meet again.</p><p>Takes place in late July 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clean Slate

Kirill glanced around the park, trying to identify the source of his sudden unease. His alarm bells were ringing loudly, warning him that someone was watching him very closely, following his every move with sharp, discerning eyes. And it wasn't the rookie CIA agent lounging casually on the bench near the entrance to the Secret Garden. Kirill had zeroed in on her the moment she'd sauntered into the park. Had even given her a smile and a wave, letting her know there were no hard feelings between the guarded and his guard.

No. This was something else entirely. Something much worse. Someone better trained, more dangerous and more subtle than a junior agent who didn't know how to hold her cover.

He scanned the faces in the crowd, ignoring the protective moms, the pushy dads, the screaming toddlers and the boisterous teens, looking for someone who seemed out of place, someone who didn't quite belong. But he saw nothing that caused him any concern. So either his instincts were acting up, or the person observing him was beyond his ability to find. He didn't much care for the implication of either answer.

He limped along the wooden fence that ran around the adventure playground, searching the crowded interior for the familiar faces of his nephew and niece. They wouldn't like it, but it was time to leave.

He was now beginning to regret this morning's spontaneous act of fraternal kindness. He'd simply wanted to do something nice for William and Michelle, knowing that his sudden appearance in their lives, and under such difficult circumstances, had placed a serious strain on their marriage. On the spur of the moment, he'd offered to take the children out for the day, to give his brother and sister-in-law some much-needed time to themselves.

He'd brought Andrew and Tatiana to one of their all-time favourite locations; a park about thirty miles away that housed a massive adventure playground. It was the kind of place he and William would both have loved as children themselves—a vast, sprawling spider's web of bridges, tunnels, nets, ropes, ladders, slides, swings and bars, all topped off with the largest and most impressive bouncy castle Kirill had ever seen. Truth be told, he'd actually been quite envious of the children clambering through the installation. Given even half a chance, he would have thrown himself into the thing with glee, height restrictions and the ache in his leg be damned.

But now, all thoughts of fun and adventure were over. He had to get the children out of the park, away from his attentive and malevolent shadow, before something terrible happened. It had taken Michelle _months_ to trust him with the care of her kids. The thought of not being able to meet that trust, of someone harming Tania and Drusha while they were under his watch, made him want to puke his guts all over the ground.

It took him a few moments to find them, in the roiling mass of children's bodies and limbs, then another few moments to catch their attention.

"Andrew, Tatiana! Come over here, please!" he shouted, waving them in towards the fence. How nice it was that they both had such normal, sensible, _Russian_ names. Names he had no problem hollering across a park. He couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed for the woman standing on his right, who was desperately trying to round up Dante and Anaximander.

Tatiana dashed across the grass towards him, trailing her older brother behind her. She hurtled into the fence with a clatter, grinning from ear to ear. She was obviously having the time of her life. Andrew was less enthusiastic in his arrival, and wore a slightly more cautious expression. A few weeks away from turning eight, and two years older than his sister, he probably knew from prior experience that a parental summons on a day like this more often brought bad news than good.

"Drusha, Tania, I am very sorry, but we have to leave," Kirill said, his voice gentle but also firm. Their faces fell, then Andrew huffed and rolled his eyes, but that was the limit of their complaints. Their parents had raised them well, so they both knew better than to argue with Uncle Kir when he used his Serious Adult Voice.

Tatiana heaved a sigh, her shoulders slumping in despair. "Do we have to go home now?" she mumbled, impaling him with her most persuasive puppy dog eyes. Home was nowhere near as exciting as the adventure playground, and contained the threat of weekend chores, not to mention grumpy parents.

Kirill mirrored his niece's sigh. Taking them home to their father and mother was by far the safest course of action, and William would want to know about any threat to his brother or kids, no matter how vague and elusive it seemed. But he'd promised the children an exciting day out, and was absolutely loathe to go back on his word, especially when they'd only been gone for a couple of hours.

What if there was no threat, and this was simply another example of his mind playing malicious tricks? The head injuries he'd sustained in the accident in Moscow, and which he was still slowly recovering from, sometimes threw his senses out of alignment. He might be jumping at shadows that had nothing solid behind them.

Besides, what the hell would they end up interrupting if they returned to the house before the appointed time? Probably nothing more sordid than a relaxing afternoon on the couch with Netflix, a pizza and a pot of coffee, but he really had no desire to find out.

Kirill evaluated his options and quickly made up his mind. He wouldn't return to the house just yet, but would take the children somewhere else, somewhere easier to secure than a crowded, wide open park, then reassess the situation. If there was even the slightest hint his watcher had followed them to their new location, _then_ he would phone his twin, call in the cavalry and run for the hills at full speed.

"No, Tania, we do not have to go home now. But I would like to leave the park," he explained, praying that for once, she would hold her curiosity at bay and not immediately demand to know why. Especially since she was so damn good at sniffing out even the smallest and whitest of lies. A future CIA interrogator in the making, if ever he'd seen one. Very much her father's daughter, to say nothing of her uncle's niece.

"I thought perhaps we could go for some ice cream now. There is a place you like in the strip mall next to your school, yes?" he asked, deliberately choosing somewhere he knew they loved, eager to guide them away from the scene before his nebulous observer made a move.

Grins spread across their youthful faces, and Tatiana bounced enthusiastically on her toes. Her uncovered toes, he noticed, frowning. Of course. They'd been playing on the bouncy castle when he called them over, which had required them to remove their shoes. And where the hell were their coats? Had they even been wearing coats? He couldn't remember. Damn it. This parenting business was an awful lot harder than it looked.

"Go find your things, and then we will leave," he told them, shooing them towards the chaotic collection of clothes and shoes scattered along the side of the castle.

While he waited for them to return, he made another careful scan of the park. His search came up empty again, but the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing at attention. And there were other symptoms now as well; shallow breathing, tacky palms, twitchy fingers and a knotting sensation in his guts. His instincts were kicking into sixth gear, warning him that something about his surroundings was dreadfully, unbearably wrong. Those instincts had saved his life on several occasions, so he knew far better than to ignore them, even if their calibration was slightly off. He and the children had to get out of the park, _right fucking now_.

His eyes passed over the copse of trees near the entrance to the miniature zoo, and there, finally, he found who he'd been looking for. In a space he swore had been empty only a few moments before, a man now stood, his body completely still, his gaze very obviously and intently fixed on his Russian prey.

To the uninitiated, there was nothing remarkable about the observer. White male, average height, trim build, fair hair, pleasing features, nondescript clothes. He looked like the boy next door, or the piano teacher's grown-up son. But Kirill knew only too well that when it came to this particular man, appearances really were deceiving. That he was _truly_ remarkable, in a way that only a handful of people understood, most of whom were now deceased.

David Webb.

Now known as Jason Bourne.

Kirill cursed in Farsi under his breath. Of all the people in the world he never wanted to see in the flesh again. He'd almost died trying to murder this man, and would have died, but for Bourne's final moment of mercy. A moment Kirill was well aware he'd done nothing to deserve.

He fought down the urge to turn on his heels and run for the hills as fast as he could. What on earth was the point? If Bourne had been able to hunt him down here in the United States, quietly living his secret new life in the basement of his brother's house, where the hell could he even go? And he would rather die than abandon his nephew and niece. So he took a deep breath and held his ground, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his posture showing neither threat nor fear, and waited for Bourne to make his move.

Bourne strode across the grass towards him, his movements assured but also contained and controlled. When he was six or seven feet away, he came to a halt. A sensible distance, Kirill noted with an approving nod. Close enough to hold a conversation, but not so close that an enemy could strike with ease. Old habits died hard, and just like the men who possessed them, some died much harder than others.

It was Kirill who spoke first.

"If you are here to kill me, I understand," he said quietly, "but please, do not harm the children."

"I'm not here to kill you, Orlov. And I have no intention of harming the children," Bourne replied. "I don't hurt innocents," he added, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Kirill grimaced but said nothing. There was nothing he could say, really, in response to that particular charge. Over the span of his long and inglorious career, he'd terrorized, harmed and killed dozens if not hundreds of innocents, including the woman Bourne had loved. What was her name again? Marie. Yes, that was it. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to block the scene on the bridge from his mind. Not one of his finest hours.

"Why are you here then, if not to kill me?" he asked, genuinely curious as to the former assassin's response.

Bourne sighed and scanned around the park, checking for dangers of his own, or simply watching the families going about their normal lives.

"Because I found out the announcement from the FSB was wrong," he eventually explained. "They told everyone you'd died from the injuries you sustained in the crash, and you sure as hell looked like you were dying when I left you, but the details just didn't add up. So I did some digging, and I found out you were still alive."

Bourne sounded annoyed now. Not that Kirill could really blame him. For men as highly-trained as them, a target who survived a kill was a _very_ annoying problem. In the twenty years he'd been using a gun, it had only happened to him twice; once, on his very first assignment, and then later on with Bourne himself. It was embarrassing, in a way, to have such disastrous bookends to his career. Although, given where he would be now if he had indeed managed to murder Bourne, that was probably a good thing.

Bourne spoke again, drawing him back out of his thoughts.

"Then I found out the CIA had beaten the FSB to the punch, and removed you from Russia back to the States," he said. "I couldn't leave that alone. I had to find out why the Company had gone to so much trouble for one relatively unimportant man. I also wanted to make sure you hadn't swapped one bad master for another, and gone straight back to your old tricks. That you weren't killing to order again, but for American money instead of Russian."

Kirill considered that he'd always killed for American money, but perhaps this wasn't the appropriate time to make that particular point.

"And what if I had gone straight back to my old tricks?" he asked. "What would you have done then?"

"I would have put a bullet in you," Bourne replied, his voice cold but perfectly calm.

Kirill nodded, thinking again. "How can you be sure I won't go back to my old tricks at some point in the future?" he asked. "Whether they are a good master or a bad one, I cannot forget that I owe the CIA my life. The time may yet come when they tell me to jump, and I will have no choice but to ask how high."

Bourne shook his head and gestured at Kirill's leg. "With that injury, you won't be jumping anywhere. The only work you'll be doing for the CIA is the kind that involves a chair and a desk."

Kirill shrugged, conceding the point. He couldn't argue with Bourne there. It didn't matter what the CIA expected or demanded of him, his days as a wetwork asset were well and truly over. Probably for the best, all things considered. It was a younger man's game, and his body had taken enough punishment to last a lifetime. A cushy analyst job at Langley would suit him very nicely, especially if it came with an attractive female assistant.

"And even without your injured leg, I don't think that's going to happen," Bourne continued in a softer and kinder voice. "I found you through your CIA records, so I know all about your parents, and what happened to you and your brother. That's a real interesting story," he said, smiling very slightly. "If you know anything about _my_ story, about why they sent you to take care of me in the first place, you know I'm telling the truth when I say I understand how it feels to be given a second chance. To wake up one day in a strange place, with no memory of how or when you got there, and no idea of who or what you're supposed to be. To wipe your slate clean, put the troubles of the past behind you and start your life all over again. And I understand how much easier it is to keep your slate clean when you have people in your life who care about you, and who believe you can be a better person."

Kirill had no answer for that. He simply stared at the ground and thought about William and Michelle. They both wanted him to be something better than who and what he'd been before, for different but equally important reasons. He honestly couldn't bear the thought of letting either of them down.

Bourne sighed, scanned around the park again, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Your slate's clean, Orlov," he announced. "And I came here today to tell you that if you keep it clean, you'll never see or hear from me again. You get so much as one drop of innocent blood on it, you use so much as one bullet without a damn good reason, and I'll be back to take care of you. Properly this time. Do what I sometimes still think I should have done in that tunnel in Moscow. And don't think I won't be able to find out what you've been up to, because I will. You understand?"

Kirill nodded mutely. He understood.

Footsteps thundered towards them across the grass. Andrew and Tatiana, shoes on and jackets in hand, ready for Uncle Kir to make good on his promise of treats. Bourne turned away, his business with Kirill now at an end, eager to be gone from the scene before the children saw his face.

"Bourne?" Kirill called out softly.

"Yes?"

"I am very sorry for what happened in Goa," he quietly confessed. "It was supposed to be you," he explained, as if this somehow diminished the gravity of his sins.

Bourne stopped dead in his tracks, but made no move to turn around.

"Yes, it was," was all he said.

And then he was gone. Hopefully for good, for both their sakes.

Tatiana tugged on his sleeve. "Who was that?" she demanded, pointing in the direction of Bourne's departure.

Kirill sighed, and swore viciously in Russian inside his head. He loved his niece very much, but there were times when her ability to notice things that shouldn't be noticed could honestly drive a man to drink. He had no idea how William endured it.

"Nobody, Tania. Just a man, asking for directions."

She said nothing, but delicately scrunched her nose, letting him know, loud and clear, that she thought his pants were completely on fire.

"So are we going for ice cream now or not?" Andrew asked, saving his uncle from yet another pint-sized grilling.

It was no longer necessary for them to leave, of course, since the danger had now passed, but Kirill knew better than to change his mind again, or Tatiana would be all over him like a fat kid on a piece of cake. It made the pins in his leg ache just thinking about it. Better to stick to his original plan.

"Yes, Drusha, we are going for ice cream now," he said, herding them towards the highly unglamorous box on wheels the Cooper family called a car. He'd been trying to persuade his brother to upgrade to something more in keeping with his profession and rank, such as an Audi A4 or a BMW Series Seven. So far, without much luck.

As they strolled past the entrance to the Secret Garden, he nodded amiably at his guard. Had she witnessed his conversation with Bourne? More than likely. Would she report it to her superiors as something worth following up on? Maybe, maybe not. Not that it really mattered one way or the other what the woman said to whom. With his recent promotion to Section Chief to replace the dearly departed Agent Wilkes, William now had a much higher security clearance, and knew all about the Treadstone debacle. Kirill could and would tell him everything later, once Michelle and the children had gone to bed. Maybe out on the patio, over a Guinness and a good cigar. And not just because the terms of his CIA deal required him to, on pain of deportation back to Moscow and a grisly fate at the hands of the FSB. Also because after twenty-eight years apart, he wanted no more secrets and lies to come between him and his older brother.

Bourne was right. He _had_ been given a second chance, and this time around, he wasn't going to fuck it up. In the last eight months, he'd changed so much he barely recognized the appalling excuse for a human being he'd once been. The old Kirill, the Kirill with no real friends or family to turn to, the Kirill who'd maimed and murdered for money without compunction or compassion, was dead, buried and long gone. He knew he'd never feel completely redeemed, especially with the CIA. Because of his actions in Berlin, the families of two senior agents were now adjusting to life without a father or spouse. When he thought about that, then about William's wife and children, he felt very uncomfortable, but surely that could only be a good thing.

And he had absolutely no intention of ignoring Bourne's ominous final warning. He couldn't say for sure he would never use a gun in the field again, but if he did, it would be for something more worthy and more important than a briefcase full of cold, hard cash.

Some people didn't like change. But he did. Change was good.

And so was ice cream.


End file.
